Everywhere
by Elvenstar Imrahil
Summary: Clint struggles with the after effects of Loki's control. Previously a one-shot. Chapter 3: In which there is turmoil.
1. Everywhere

Clint sees him everywhere. Out of the corner of his eye, in shadows on the wall. In reflections, behind him, over his shoulder. His first instinct is to whip around and _fire_ at the man, but he always resists. He's not compromised. He refuses to be compromised. S.H.I.E.L.D. means too much to him, is what he tells himself when his heart starts pounding and his breath comes fast and ragged, when nightmares of horrifying, disjointed half-memories of that time he wasn't himself startle him from sleep.

'Tasha knows all this. She notices the flicker of fatigue and the darkening circles under his eyes before anyone else and she keeps it to herself. She'll help him through it. She's the only one who can.

Clint dreads the thought of Fury ever finding out he's seeing things. Hawkeye has only just recently been cleared for assignment after a lengthy stint on leave to work through PTSD with a shrink. It worked, to an extent. He can sleep for several hours on end now without coming to his senses to find his recurve bow drawn in his hands. But he needs to _do_ something. As long as he's _doing_, he's not _thinking_. As long as he's on a mission, as long as he has his next target, he's not remembering that he's responsible for the deaths of fellow agents. Agents like Coulson. Coulson, who had regularly requested Clint's assignment to the "fun" missions. Coulson, who had been killed in his - _Loki's_ - attack on the helicarrier.

Now the god of lies haunts him, waiting, he can only assume, for his guard to falter. Biding his time until he can slip back in, keeping watch for even the slightest chink in Clint's armor.

Clint sees him everywhere and his first instinct is always to whip around with his bow drawn, but he always resists. He gives no visible sign that he's seeing things. He ignores the shadows and the reflections and the apparitions whenever they present themselves and he never turns to look. He dares not, because his greatest fear is that he isn't seeing things, that when he turns, Loki will be standing there, waiting for him.

_"You have heart."_


	2. Mercy

When Clint wakes with a start, it's hardly a surprise. These sudden attacks of dread that shake him from sleep have been regular occurrences for too long, often happening at least three times a night that he will remember the next morning. At least now his gun and bow are on the bedside table and not in his hands when full awareness returns to him. It's been almost two years since Loki's invasion attempt and almost eight months since Hawkeye was allowed back into the field. He still has to have a psych eval every two months, but he's back to work and when he's working he can almost forget.

He flexes his fingers and stares at the ceiling while he waits for his heart rate to slow and the fear to dissipate. Step One of a routine he's developed to ease himself back into sleep. When he is satisfied, he proceeds, turning his head to scan the room, to _show_ himself there's nothing there. And there is nothing, nothing but the shadows that cling to the corners and far wall of the room, that not even his eyes can penetrate. Just as always, silence and darkness are his only companions upon waking and he lets his eyes slip closed, the lethargy of sleep already seeping through his limbs. After several long moments lying in that pre-sleep daze, a flicker of light glows through his closed eyelids. He blinks his eyes slowly open. Loki stands in the doorway.

Clint's eyes snap open as full wakefulness returns to him with a surge of adrenaline. He makes to grab his gun only to find he cannot move, no matter how he strains. He cannot even open his mouth to scream or turn his head to look away from the god's leering face.

Loki moves to the side of the bed, looming over the archer where he lies helpless, and extends a hand to hover before his face, and eerie blue-green light dancing at the fingertips. Now Clint's heart is hammering, his eyes wide, a thousand nightmares spinning through his head. He wants to scream, to screw his eyes shut, but his throat remains closed and his eyes open and transfixed by Loki's own.

Then the god pours into his mind like smoke. Like smoke with claws that catch at the fringes of his consciousness, allowing Loki to drag himself deeper into his mind. Clint tries to fight him off, push him out, but Loki dissipates at the assault, reconstituting around him, trapping him. It's like fingers pressing on his temples until at last they push through flesh and bone to brush against his brain.

Suddenly Clint is alone in the dark, the door of this room of his mind shut firm and locked against the monster that rattles the handle. Knees drawn up to his chin and tightly grasped with his arms, he is shivering, young and terrified, desperately praying he won't be caught, that the door will hold. Eventually the rattling subsides. All is still and silent. He calms. Then he feels it, like a whisper of breath on his skin: Loki's presence, all around him in the very shadows he'd thought to hide himself in. He tries to flee but Loki catches him, ensnaring him completely in his web of a mind.

_"Don't make this difficult, Barton."_

Clint's thoughts race, memories flashing vividly, and Loki crawls right inside. He would have screamed. His memory ran like a thread or a strip of film and he can do nothing as Loki unspools it.

Loki drags everything out till it lies all unraveled, then goes over it again, and Clint remembers _everything. _Shooting Fury, shooting at Hill, the tunnel chase, Stuttgart, his attack on the helicarrier, fighting 'Tasha... and exactly how many agents he'd killed. (_Stop, no, I wasn't-_) But he had been _glad_ to. It had been so simple. For once in his life, he'd been completely sure of what to do. There had been no uncertainty, only glorious, overwhelming purpose. He had been _free_. His stomach churns.

Loki severs the thread, and it is no longer thread but a needle piercing Clint's skull as he wrests it from the archer's mind. Slowly, agonizingly, the newfound memories are pulled away from Clint and his mind writhes and his thoughts scream.

_"This is a mercy," _Loki tells him.

Clint can taste bile in the back of his throat. _This is a mercy,_ he echoes helplessly.

* * *

Clint thrashes and kicks, but the deed is done and Loki is gone by the time he perceives and reacts, so he is left writhing and panting at a memory, powerless as he relives the nightmare for the first time. He falls out of bed and staggers into the bathroom, where he retches into the sink. His breath shudders in his throat and he is shaking. He looks up to meet his own weary, bloodshot eyes reflected in the mirror above the sink. An absurd relief washes over him at the sight.

His reflection smirks.

_"You should thank me."_

* * *

**A/N: Happy (upcoming) Halloween. I wish you lots of candy.**


	3. Dissonance

A/N: Wow you guys are incredibly patient, but thank you, one and all, for sticking around. Enjoy!

* * *

The cold water drums steadily down on Clint's neck and shoulders, the incessant rhythm of it doing a small part to distract him from the panic that still claws at the fringes of his mind. His sleepclothes are soaked through and he's shivering, though whether it's from adrenaline or cold, he can't tell. He can still hear his pulse throbbing in his ears, still feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

He holds both his arms away from him, his right elbow resting on the edge of the tub, his left forearm braced against the wall. In one hand is his cell. In the other is his gun.

He has no idea how long he sits under the showerhead, letting the cold wash over him. Minutes stretch on for hours. He tries to keep his mind blank, but it insists on replaying Loki's intrusion into his mind. He swallows the bile that rises in his throat and screws his eyes shut, bowing his head and shuddering.

The crunch of glass under shoes draws him out of his reverie.

"You and the mirror have a disagreement?"

_'Tasha._ His eyes snap wide open and he clambers hastily to his feet. He levels the gun at her.

She looks surprised... and concerned. But she sees what he doesn't notice: That he's holding the gun in his right hand. His weak hand. His finger isn't even on the trigger. "Clint."

"Could be a trick. He knows everything now."

She holds her hands up, open, placating. Then she lowers them. He can read her better than anyone and she knows it. Though she makes a point to never do it the same way twice, he'd still recognized standard S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol for confronting the unstable-and-armed. She let him see it, and her shift in tactics. She takes a small step toward him. "Do you trust me?"

He wavers. "I shouldn't."

A half-blink. "But do you?"

He's taut and rigid and ready to spring, but there is the barest lowering of his shoulders that tells 'Tasha he's surrendered.

She relaxes too, underneath the facade of calm, and takes the gun from him, prying his stress-frozen fingers from the grip and placing it on the counter by the sink. Then, reaching past him to shut off the water, she pulls a mostly-dry towel from the rack and hands it to him in return for his cell, setting it with the gun. "Okay. What happened?"

Her eyes are on him, measuring, reading, boring into him. His stomach twists, and the movement of his thoughts to his incomplete recollection of _whatever-that-was_ does little to aid things. He wraps the towel around his shoulders, avoiding 'Tasha's gaze.

"Clint."

She can read him better than anyone and he knows it. "Loki. He, uh... I don't even know. He was _in my head_. He did something - to my mind. Fixed something. No. I don't was there- here, then he was gone, but he's still locked up in wherever-it-is, in Asgard. Right? Worlds away. He shouldn't be here, shouldn't have been here. We would know if he'd escaped, wouldn't we? _I_ would know."

The spy is silent. Then, "What did Loki do to your mind?"

He looks up, eyes meeting hers, and the fear there is enough to chill her blood. "I don't remember. _I don't know what he did to me, Nat,_" he says hoarsely, his voice low and broken. "He just- he said I should thank him. For what he did. And maybe I should. I thought, 'Maybe I should.'"

'Tasha's eyes spark alight, her brows lowering, her mouth setting into a thin, firm line. "You don't owe him anything, Clint. Not after what he's done to you."

_"Then why don't I know that?"_

The whispered question hangs long and unanswered in the air between them.


End file.
